by Aidan Conway
“I will be brief,” said Chief Superintendent Maroni, head of the Rome Serious Crime Squad, at the centre of the seven-man line-up which included the city prefect and two of the three magistrates so far involved. “I think most of you know who I am by now and, well, there have been,” he continued, briefly looking down at his notes, “certain developments regarding the recent murders of the two women in Rome and the earlier murder near the Via Cristoforo Colombo, and it is with some cautious optimism that I can say we are pleased,” he said turning briefly to survey his colleagues before recommencing, “to be able to confirm that these developments are ‘significant’.” As he raised his head, there was a wild paroxysm of flash photography and a forest of phone and pen-clutching hands shot up hoping to spear a question-asking opportunity.
At the back of the conference room, Michael Rossi entered through a side door and took up a position where there was still a little space. He had a shaken, ruffled appearance, but despite his still simmering anger he was also quite resigned for he knew exactly what was coming next.
He knew because before leaving the Questura he had already accepted yet another slice of his fate. Nonetheless, he was glad at least to have had some time with Spinelli. It had been crucial. As such, he had taken the call from Maroni, deciding to swallow the toad sooner rather than later. Incandescent, his superior had summoned him to a private room where in no uncertain terms he’d dressed Rossi down, ordered him to steer clear of making any trouble, and told him exactly how things were going to be played out later before the press. Then, true to form, Maroni had half-excused himself for his barbarity before sending Rossi away with instructions to “be late for the conference because you’re so fucking busy chasing killers that you can’t remember your own name.”
“My officers and I would like to thank in particular Inspectors Michael Rossi and Luigi Carrara and their team of investigators, who have been working flat out on this case and have not been able to join us, as yet.”
“Well here I am,” proffered Rossi, like a madman taunting his other self and anyone else who might hear him, but all eyes were on Maroni.
“My officers and I have been able to reconstruct a significant series of events leading up to the murder of Maria Marini, the details of which will emerge in due course but suffice to say the information we have so far been able to gather has been judged sufficient by the public prosecutor for us to move in the direction of making an arrest in this case with a view to bringing charges.”
More hopeful arms were thrust into the air to the accompaniment of rabid camera flashing and clicking but all to no avail as Maroni continued what was turning out to be nothing more than a statement.
“I will not be taking any questions now as there is, as I am sure you can all imagine, much work still to do. If there are any further developments this evening, we will endeavour to inform you forthwith. Thank you and good evening.”
And with that they filed out as indifferently as they had when they arrived.
Rossi, moving towards the centre of the melee, had caught Iannelli’s eye. The two men exchanged a glance, the import of which they both understood.
“Fancy Arabic?” said Rossi to the journalist now sitting beside him in his car. “We can talk there, it’s off the beaten track, don’t worry.”
“Suits me fine.”
Twenty
They found parking easily enough on Via Merulana and walked up the slight incline of the broad flagged pavement in the direction of the Basilica. In January, with Christmas done and dusted, the area saw little human activity and, with the pall of fear over the city, tonight it felt deserted. In winter, from this spot, if you could ignore for a moment the hypnotizing fairy-tale gold mosaics and baroque facade of Santa Maria Maggiore which greeted you, it was possible to see in the distance the sister basilica of San Giovanni by looking over your shoulder down the dead-straight boulevard. When spring came the plane trees would burst into life making the same long road between the two basilicas richly forest-like and mercifully cool, dappling the fierce sun held at bay overhead. But now, in the dark, all was bare and skeletal against the ashen sky.
They slipped into the warmth of Shwarma Station and ordered liberally from the dazzling array of Syrian and North African specialities at much saner prices than some of the more di moda kebab joints where conservative Romans went to be cosmopolitan. Stuffed vine leaves, falafel, couscous, hummus, and kebabs. There was no alcohol but they could wait. They took a table under the TV at the back of the room. There were the usual diners: expatriate Arabs, students, nostalgic types relishing the simplicity of paper table cloths and ordinary people and just a little edge. This was a meeting place, too, for the Islamic community and in the coming and going of Moroccans, Egyptians, Arabs, and Libyans there were, for sure, some less than legitimate characters caught up in the mix. For a good five minutes they ate in silence until they had seen off the first wave of their hunger.
“So, what’s new, Dario?”
“Depends what you mean? You mean the local shenanigans or the murder mystery?”
“All right,” said Rossi, “if you could give me some firm leads on either score, I’d be buying you dinner next time as well as today, but I’ll take whatever’s going.”
“Well, as far as my theories on the immigration rackets are concerned, I can’t get much unless you can secure me those wire taps on a few key individuals.”
Rossi shook his head.
“You know that’s impossible. No judge will give me the time of day if it’s anyone near the top of the tree with connections to high-ranking individuals. They’ll laugh me out of town. And for me to take the law into my own hands on this one, well that would be signing my own, I won’t say death warrant, but it could be close.”
Iannelli had the air of the mad scientist on the verge of the big discovery but thwarted by factors beyond his control. Rossi could almost imagine him screaming at the unbelievers “The fools!”
“I know I’m onto something big there, Michael, big and transversal. Do you follow? Everyone could be involved. Left, right, centre, Church, the co-ops and charities, even ex-terrorists. That’s the word I’m getting. We just need those taps and we could do something. Somebody would have to listen then.”
Rossi was intrigued but he knew that in these matters the system moved at a speed and in a manner comparable to that of plate tectonics in the earth’s crust: vast strategic interests that bordered one another yet only clashed decisively in certain key moments and when perhaps you least expected it. But nothing was likely to move until someone wanted it to move. It had to be at the bidding of some deus ex machina, but not a general saviour, rather some saviour of yet higher interests. Russian dolls. Stories within stories. Yes. The Arabian Nights.
“And the murders?” Rossi enquired. “What’s out, Dario? I mean, the notes, the suspect? This prick-teasing at the press conference. What’s the word on that?”
It was Iannelli’s turn now to shake his head.
“Nothing from me, Michael, I’m holding fire, but sooner or later somebody’s always going to let something slip. You know that.”
“And tip-offs?”
“Nothing.”
“But d’you know who they’re going to arrest or not?”
“Well, I do have a sneaking suspicion it might be someone close to Ms Marini, if that’s what you mean.”
“Obviously, but who?”
“Look,” said Iannelli, wiping his fingers on a napkin, “I know about the MPD link but until there’s an arrest we won’t be going with it. ‘Police are close to an arrest in The Carpenter case’, if you like. Something like that. But you clearly know how close, don’t you? Though you don’t look exactly tickled by it.”
Rossi rolled an olive across his plate with his fork.
“What do you want out of this, Dario? The same as me? To get a killer off the street? Or to have a high-profile show trial that can run for God knows how long? Or do you think there’s more here than meets
the eye? Do you want it to be more than the sum of its parts? Is that where you think this is going?”
“Michael, isn’t it always more than the sum of its parts when there’s politics in play?”
“So you think Spinelli is involved?”
“In some way, yes. He has to be.”
“But guilty?”
“That remains to be seen. You’re the policeman here, aren’t you?”
“But no smoke without fire. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Look,” said Iannelli, “if a high-profile politician’s lover is brutally murdered close to the most crucial parliamentary elections in recent Italian history, there has to be something going on. It has to be more than coincidence. And added to that, she just happens to be a judge’s daughter, a mafia-pool judge’s daughter. Well, what do you think? What does your instinct tell you?”
“I don’t think he did it.”
“Why not?”
“I have my reasons. It’s partly gut-feeling but it just doesn’t fit.”
“So why are you here talking to me?”
“Because I need your help.”
“And do you think I want to help you?”
“I think we have a common goal here, Dario.”
“Go on.”
“I think we both want to see something finally change, for the better, in this godforsaken country. In this godforsaken political establishment.”
“And this is how it’s going to change? Chit-chatting over kebabs?”
“They want Spinelli to go down, Dario! They’ve practically taken the investigation out of my hands, so something has changed here, for sure.”
“Who wants him to go down?”
“Well,” said Rossi, “I was hoping you might tell me that.”
“All right,” said Iannelli, throwing his crumpled napkin onto the empty plate and sitting back to deliver his peroration. “Nothing happens by chance. Think Pasolini. Think Pecorelli. Think Dalla Chiesa. Go right back to Enrico Mattei. All killed because they got too close to the truth, too close to nailing the corrupt politicians, too close to getting the Yanks and their petro-dollars out of our economy and off our backs.”
“So it’s a conspiracy,” said Rossi, “and the puppet masters pull the strings we can’t even see to cut, never mind get to the guys themselves?”
“Except maybe the game just changed.”
“The MPD?” said Rossi.
“The MPD.”
“OK,” said Rossi. “So how are the old guard going to win their public back now that there’s a clean act in town? Copy the new guys?”
“Ignore them, bad mouth them, discredit them, get their media friends to tell the public they’re being conned. It’s all PR.”
“Set them up as murderers, liars, deceivers?”
“Why not? And then tell everyone the state is under attack. But better still, actually insert a few extremists of your own design first. It’s that much easier to predict the notoriously unpredictable course of political history if you are actually writing that same history as you go along, don’t you think?”
“So the Movement’s already been infiltrated, clearly, as a matter of course?”
“Every party is infiltrated and as long as no one in the ranks steps too far out of line then they’re free to go on peddling the usual platitudes, feathering their nests, and faking very visible and audible arguments so everyone thinks democracy is in rude good health. Except it’s all been wearing a little thin recently, hasn’t it?”
“Hence the MPD being on the verge of an historic, totally game-changing victory – if they are to be believed, that is. We’ve all become so cynical, haven’t we?”
“Yes, but they will be stepping out of line. They’re really going to shake the tree. And that’s when the sleepers’ll have to wake up and start doing their thing.”
“What about the plans for the Lateran Treaties?”
“What plans?”
“According to Spinelli, the MPD want to put it to a referendum, change the constitution. Marini was working with him on it at the time.”
“That’s a game changer. That’s big. Those treaties have guaranteed the special relationship between Italy and the Vatican since the days of Mussolini. We’re talking a lot of reciprocal privileges and a lot of money above all.”
“And I didn’t tell you, right?”
Iannelli paused for a moment.
“You know there’s this theory that Blair was, allegedly, a long-term CIA plant. Picked up at Oxford, set on his way and then, with the help of a pliant media establishment, when Bush and company needed a friend, he was already nicely positioned. Long-term planning. You know there’s a photo of him, from his Oxford days, Tony the lad, having a laugh, one of us.
“But what you don’t see is that the photo’s been cropped-down. What you don’t see is that he’s giving the wanker sign to the camera. And it never got out. No one ever made it public. And that is power.”
Iannelli laughed then continued.
“And everyone’s having a go at Russia and China, but here it’s more subtle, worse in some ways because so many people just don’t realize they’re being lied to constantly, systematically, assiduously.”
Rossi had heard it all before. It all seemed so plausible, so right, so ecstatically, beautifully and liberatingly spot on but what he needed were facts. Physical, tangible, incontrovertible facts. This was the day job and it brought out the rational-atheist in him, the sceptic who couldn’t be doing with the wacky stuff from the other side.
“So you see a narrative here?” he asked.
“I see the powers-that-be, Michael. Give them whatever name you want.”
“I just want to know who’s killing the women, Dario. They’re wives and mothers and I think there could be a message there too, apart from the notes. This mother thing. Sancta Mater Ecclesia.”
“And what if he’s not this mother-hating serial killer?” Iannelli said, sitting up a little to confront his friend. “What if it’s all just a front, a disguise, a way of filling the front pages and removing the thorns in the sides of the interested parties? The TV’s going bonkers over all this, at least the private channels. If that’s the case, it’s not like you’re trying to catch a maniac. It’s like trying to catch the whole damn system.”
“The system!”
“Yeah! The system! Do you still think the Red Brigades were fighting for a Marxist takeover? They could have been hand in glove with the real powers-that-be when they needed a result.”
It was getting out of hand. There was always something else behind everything that occurred, some darker cause, some more sinister objective, some hidden hand going right back to the kidnapping and murder of the prime minister Aldo Moro, in 1978, in broad daylight, in the capital city.
Someone had ratcheted up the volume on the TV screen above their heads to hear the latest on a rolling 24-hour news channel. From the pictures they could see that a hastily convened news conference at the Questura was in progress and that an announcement had been made.
“A man has been arrested in connection with the deaths of Paola Gentili and Maria Marini. Police say they are questioning Luca Spinelli, a prominent figure within the MPD and for whom Marini had been working as a legal adviser. Neither representatives of Mr Spinelli nor his wife were available for comment this evening.”
Rossi leapt to his feet.
“Right! So the little game’s up and running!” he said.
“The MPD murdering adulterer,” added Iannelli. “That’s why they delayed it. They wanted it to coincide with the news and all those families sitting down together watching after dinner. Goggle-eyed. Sucking it all in. A crime of passion, of course. Hey, it might win the MPD some votes from the Neanderthals.”
“If they can read,” said Rossi, stuffing a stray, hummus-smeared falafel into his mouth. “Have to go. Can you get a cab?”
“Sure but it was just getting interesting!”
“Sorry. Thanks for the info and
all that.”
“Think nothing of it but …”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you in the loop.”
“But watch yourself, I was going to say,” said Iannelli, to nobody now, for Rossi had gone.
Twenty-One
Rossi headed back to the office hoping to find at least Carrara still there. Maroni wanted them to press ahead with Spinelli. Rossi wouldn’t exactly be permanently off the case because, as far as Maroni was concerned, the case was already as good as closed. Just the washing-up to do, although he had at least rung Rossi later to thank him. But from here on in, the public prosecutor would be preparing the case. The Luzi and Gentili murders remained unsolved, however, and Rossi and Carrara were to continue the investigation but Maroni was having none of the serial killer theory. Unrelated. Coincidence. Whatever. And that was that.
From what Rossi had been able to gauge out on the streets and in the bars and restaurants, public opinion was divided between those who saw Spinelli either as the dark architect of all the murders, or just that of his lover, or the MPD patsy being stitched up good and proper. It could go any way. What Rossi did have was the blood test. He hoped Carrara would be able to shed some light on who, if anyone, might have been with Spinelli on the night of the murder. He tried his phone. Engaged. The wife probably. Perhaps tonight he would get to touch base with Yana. He thought for a second about giving her a ring. Later, he decided. She’d be tired after her shift. His phone rang. It was Carrara.
“Gigi.”
“Mick, you heard then?”
“Yep. On the TV. Where are you?”
“I’m here,” said Carrara. “Maroni told me to take some leave, but I convinced him I had some unfinished business to be getting on with, and besides we’re still theoretically working on the other two cases, aren’t we? Are you coming over?”
